


you slow it down (so damn slow)

by transgenicveins



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: And a little bit of angst, Domesticity, M/M, and a little bit of poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:03:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transgenicveins/pseuds/transgenicveins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Zayn's world is too fast and Liam tries his hardest to slow it down.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	you slow it down (so damn slow)

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posting from livejournal, written in july 2012.

It’s like this:

  
Zayn’s world speeds up on a Tuesday, about twenty seconds after singing a Mario song in front of a thousand people, and has refused to slow down from that absolutely dizzying pace since.

  
He doesn’t mind, though. He doesn’t mind the rush or the overdose of adrenalin or the blurring world around him and he _definitely_ doesn’t mind the four boys that are stuck in this crazy orbit with him.

  
It’s a welcome distraction. Interviewers assume it’s tiring but, no, living in quarter-time is their automatic response, their reflex, and when it all slows down and they’re alone, _that’s_ when Zayn’s tired because he can’t help the onslaught of _hey, have you acknowledged that you’re nineteen and all you have is an album and a letter jacket and a bunch of tattoos which are the by-product of these slow moments what happened to an Oxford education and Sunday roasts and a favourite coffee shop and_ fuck you _Malik_ -

  
No, in the hazy world, he finds his peace.

  
His calm is in a crowd of nineteen thousand and a sore throat and sweat dripping down his collarbones and not a moment of silence in sight.

  
(well, until Liam happens, at least)

  


/ / /

  


It’s like this:

  
Zayn wakes up a few weeks into the recording, the tempo of his new life still dizzying, with Liam only inches away and curly hair in his eyes and fist in the blankets, and he realises-

  
_Oh._

  
_Wow._

His body reacts to the alteration quicker than he can process- his heart thumps and a certain jolt of dopamine and adrenaline and _Liam_ diffuses into his cells, and he simultaneously wants to touch the natural twist of his lips and stay in this position on the floor of an overpopulated city _forever_ to study the line of his neck.

  
He’s cuddling closer and learning the indent of his collarbone when a pile of curls collapses between them. “Rehearsals in ten,” Harry says, and Zayn crawls out of the pile of blankets with a spared profanity.

  
“Ten?” he repeats, attempting to tame his bed-hair, but he’s distracted by the hints of a wide-eyed and half-dressed boy in his peripheral vision.

  
“I cannot be to blame for your affinity with cuddling,” he teases. Zayn throws a hairbrush in his direction.

  
He’s halfway through his gel when Liam stumbles past, presses a sloppy kiss on Zayn’s tense shoulders, and whispers ‘ _don’t it looks hot loose’_.

  
(and he spends the next five hours in the hall with his hair hanging in his face, scribbling down nonsense proses which don’t even _begin_ to quell the ache in his lungs)

  


/ / /

  
It’s like this:

  
Nothing happens after Zayn becomes near infatuated with Liam because they’re not _like_ that, they’re not the melodramatic antics of Niall and Louis and Harry, they’re the quiet before a show and the whispers after bed and the walks through anonymous cities, and Zayn doesn’t want to give that up for peace of mind.

  
Now, though- now he just wants to crawl into the closest bed and listen to Man in the Mirror on repeat and think about his grandpa singing it to him when he was young and how it was in that moment he decided he wanted to hold onto that elation for the rest of his life, how it was him who pushed him towards the audition line, how it was his educated, soft voice that calmed him before their first group performance, how he’d spent his last visit home _texting_ -

  
“I’m not going,” Liam is saying, on the other side of the door, while Zayn squeezes his phone rhythmically with hunched shoulders and sore eyes. “The other three can sing our parts, I’m _staying_ here-”

  
He can hear the PR rep saying something about ‘fans’ and ‘refunds’ and ‘image’, but mostly he focuses on Liam’s voice and tries to lose himself in the soothing baritone.

  
“You don’t understand,” he says angrily, “that’s my best friend in there and if you think I’m going to leave him- he _hates_ airports- he _needs_ me- just-”

  
Liam argues with her a little longer before groaning in frustration and opening the door, sprawling on the bed. He burrows into the gap between Zayn’s jaw and his shoulder and brushes his fingers along his wrist. Zayn brushes back.

  
He doesn’t even try to force words out of Zayn’s lips- he just holds his hand and hums a _dream a little dream of me_ under his breath and tries to diffuse serenity into his capillaries.

  
Only a few minutes later, he shifts against the mattress and presses a kiss against his cheek. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and Zayn squeezes his hand, “I would come with you- all the way to Bradford- but they’re _making_ me-”

  
Zayn nods and bites back the ‘ _stay stay I can’t slow it down this is scary and new and I need some sleep and I need some peace please stay’_ and instead says- “have a good night”. It’s maybe the hitch of his voice which triggers Liam to wrap his arms around him and card fingers through his hair.

  
(and, just when Zayn’s breath is calming and his heart aches a little less-)

  
“Time to leave, Mr. Payne.”

  
Liam rotates to glare at the representative. “Just a little longer,” he pleads, and in the background Louis and Niall are arguing with some bodyguards, and in the room everything’s blurring out of orbit and it’s too fast so fast and he can’t _breathe_ -

  
“I’ll be okay,” he says, and the trembles in his voice are beginning to spread to his shoulders.

  
Liam just stares for a moment and whispers a low ‘ _Malik, you don’t need to pretend with me’_ , before slipping out of his bed and deliberately placing his knit sweater in Zayn’s duffel.  

  
(Later, while he’s boarding, Liam calls between the setlist and tries to fill the white noise with ‘ _Lou refused to sing your part I really hope you’re okay it’s like we’re missing a limb try to sleep be safe listen to the emergency evacuation message I know you never do and don’t drink your tea too fast you always burn your tongue and we’ll be right here when you get back okay be strong be fucking strong and when you come back I’ll be strong for both of us_ ’ and Zayn almost cries as he passes the pilot his ticket)

  


/ / /

  


It’s like this:

  
They’ve only been doing _this_ (this being without a label, this being sharing hotel rooms and leaving one bed untouched, this being holding hands during landings and blushing across the busy airport when they’re forced to let go) for a few weeks, and their break in Australia is the first moment of relative quiet they’ve had since Liam fixed his collar backstage between songs and brushed soft lips against Zayn’s in the process.

  
Zayn’s on the deck of a yacht in the Sydney Harbour and there’s no one in sight and it’s like they have all the time in the world and he just wants to wrap an arm around Liam’s waist and kick at the fresh, cool water and share slow, lazy, tender kisses.

  
He can’t though, he’s not allowed and they’re not quite comfortable yet and there’s a helicopter and fifteen docked cameras and a few dozen crewmen.

  
That knowledge drowns in the depths of the Pacific, though, with Liam grinning over the rim of his Corona and the soft variation of the sunlight and the breeze stirring their hair together. He tangles their fingers together and ducks closer, fingers pressing to the pulse point behind his ear, and there’s only a breath separating them and there’s something comfortable in the distance-

   
“Downstairs?” Liam suggests, pressing his forehead against Zayn’s, and there’s a brief moment of awkward when Zayn knocks his beer overboard in his haste, but Liam soothes him with a hand on the small of his back and a mischievous wink.

  
The door to the cabin locks and Zayn’s _certain_ that’s a safety violation, but Liam’s crowding him against the sink and holding his hips against the banister and thrusting his tongue (slowly, rhythmically, like an airplane him and a drum beat combined) into his pliant lips.

  
(he tastes like beer and chocolate and the sea and Zayn wants that flavour between his lips forever)

  
“ _Fuck_ Liam,” he groans, as lips drag down the centre of his chest and mouth at his cock, “you- just- fuck- overwhelming-”

  
“Do you want me to flick my hair?” he teases and nuzzles close. “I’ll tell you what makes you beautiful.”

  
“Arsehole,” he scowls, and Liam whispers a ‘ _that’s where this was heading_ ’ which makes him knock his head against the mirror in protest and dig into the closest drawer for-

  
“Most ships don’t store lube for rampant band members,” Liam teases, hands daring to skim below the waistband to brush against his hipbones.

  
Zayn scowls but it’s lost in the moan drawn from his lips. “They need to clear the propeller!” he protests, clutching to the muscles in his shoulders.

  
Liam laughs and exposes the tanned line of his neck and Zayn automatically tugs him up and cuddles closer to nibble at the tendons there. “Pretty certain they use oil for that, sweetheart, not KY,” he teases, and Zayn muffles a laugh in his collarbone.

  
“Can we-” he sighs, squeezing a hand between their bodies to tease the waistband of Liam’s bathers, “are you-”

  
Liam whines in approval and shoves at Zayn’s clothes and they’re not kissing, they’re sharing oxygen and the slide of their cocks against each other is destroying his sanity and he just wants to _drown_ in this sensation and in this cabin and in Liam.

  
They’re halfway to debauchery (with Liam’s hand holding up a thigh and the other strong around his neck and Zayn’s hips grinding in slow circles and a steady litany of profanity sneaking between kisses) when Niall cracks open the door with an apologetic smile. Zayn groans low in his throat and keeps sucking a pretty mark onto Liam’s shoulder.

  
“Paparazzi will be here in five,” he says, turning back to the sunshine, “make sure you don’t look thoroughly fucked for twenty-six million people.”

  
“Fucking hell,” he whispers, a little desperately, and Liam curls a protective arm around his waist and tries to kiss away his frown.

  
(Liam’s flawless not only in his smile and voice but in the way that he would buy out the continent to keep Zayn safe)

  
“Pause?” he suggests, his kisses starting to linger. Zayn desperately kisses back and loses himself in the rocking of the ocean and gentle sway of Liam’s hips and the soft waves of his voice. “We’ll fuck later, I promise.”

  
Zayn clutches to the hair at the nape of his neck. “There’s no _time_ ,” he groans, but Liam smiles against his lips and whispers a ‘ _I’ll make time for you, baby, you’re nineteen we have all the time in the world’_ and leads him out with fingers pressed to the nape of his neck.

  
(and a week later, Zayn’s so desperate to maintain the sensation that he drags Liam to a parlour in New Zealand and gets a tattoo just above where his fingers are comfortable)

  


/ / /

  


It’s like this:

  
They’re three shows and two cities away from home and there’s nothing notably _different_ about the night to warrant the odd atmosphere of calm, but Zayn wants to avoid the stadium and stay in this big hotel room and watch the city dance below them.

  
Liam looks up from his crossword and James Morrison’s _The Awakening_ dims in the background and Zayn’s heart beats a little faster. “We merit a crossword question,” he laughs, and there’s something so heartbreakingly soft and slow about the moment. “Which teenage boy band won the Brit for best single?”

  
Zayn grins and leans over his shoulder to steal his ballpoint pen. “Clearly The Wanted,” he teases, nuzzling into the hollow of his neck, “I remember a very attractive boy in a suit giving an acceptance speech.”

  
Liam hums low in his throat and presses into the touch. “Nathan Sykes?”

  
“Ethan Johns, actually,” he says idly, letting out a soft yelp as Liam tugs him over the chair and into his lap, dancing his fingers over his ribs. They squirm together for a few songs and the sun sets behind them and they’re sharing kisses and he doesn’t want to leave ever ever _ever-_

  
“I love you,” Liam says happily, for the very first time, and it’s not theatrical or scary, it’s just a warm bind that squeezes him from the inside out.

  
Zayn shifts to straddle his thighs and press their foreheads together and he’s a breath away from replying when a stage manager bursts through the door.

  
“Two minutes,” he warns, and the bind around his heart tightens.

  
 “Just a little longer,” Zayn pleads, and Liam’s hand soothes the small of his back.

  
The manager scoffs. “Sorry, kid, you’re contracted to punctuality. One hundred seconds and I need your skinny arse backstage.”

  
Zayn freezes for a moment and- yes, there it is, the rush of adrenalin and the increased production of thyroxin and hint of dopamine- he’s shaking all over and _suffocating_ in his own skin and-

  
Liam cuddles him a little closer, and the pressure on his lungs is overshadowed by the heaviness of the words in his heart. “Baby,” he soothes, singing, and Zayn should feel emasculated but he just melts into the touch, “our day will come, if we just wait a while.”

  
He shudders into the touch and buries his lips in the hollow of his neck. “The world’s just too fast,” he mumbles. Liam’s lips brush against his hair.

  
“I will slow it down for you,” he promises and when Zayn shifts to shoot him a hopeful smile, he ducks closer to press a kiss to pink lips. He wraps his strong hands around Zayn’s thighs and carries him, laughing between kisses, to the side-curtain, and Zayn feels a little less alone in the big bad world.

  
( _‘bastard’_ he mumbles, while they kiss for the third ‘very last time’ of the night, and when Liam lets out a huff of indignation, he whispers ‘ _it’s hard to be broody when I’m so in love with you_ ’)

  
(Liam’s eyes flash a pretty gold and Zayn’s cheeks burn pink and they’re a little late, after all)

  


/ / /

  


It’s like this:

  
Liam is his calm, now. Liam’s the core he orbits around and the roots twisting through his veins and the quiet hour between dawn and daylight. He silences Zayn’s worries with a simple press of the lips and he just wants to curl inside his chest cavity and keep that tranquillity forever.

  
A hand brushes over his bare stomach and a soft light stings his eyes and he registers a moment too late the cotton (not the Egyptian silk, not the stiff, foreign layers- the cotton that still smells of Liam after months away) under his shoulder blades and the smell of wet, London concrete from the open window (cracked open with curtains pulled back from skyline gazing the night before) and-

  
Gentle lips coax his open and when he shifts to his elbows to kiss back, strong hands secure his hips to the mattress. “Morning,” Liam whispers, low, from the back of his throat, and Zayn’s reminded of that morning a year ago when his heart had swelled, just like this. He wriggles in Liam’s grip. “Stay still.”

  
He growls and Liam rolls on top and kisses him gently into compliance and when he opens his eyes- _wow_ \- he wants to burn the image of Liam’s bedhair and sleepy smile in the gentle light into his retinas.

  
Liam grins against his lips and starts pressing soft kisses down his neck. “Don’t rush,” he scolds playfully, “this is what you wanted, right, this is slow, we’re going to go so slow, baby, it will be like slow motion it will feel so good it’s just you and me I _promised-_ ”

  
He sighs and settles back into the pile of pillows as calloused fingertips trace the line of his biceps. They’re followed by chapped lips and sneak lower, lower still, slipping under the edge of his loose sweatpants while he mouths at the outline of his cock through the material.

  
 “Hips,” he prompts, sneaking a hand between his waist and the mattress to tap on the small of his back. Zayn complies and lifts up and Liam effortlessly holds up his waist with one hand and tugs off his pants with the other. His tongue snakes across the head once it’s exposed and Zayn nuzzles into the pillows.

  
Liam doesn’t swallow him to the root or lick along the shaft or do any of the things that _usually_ drive him insane- no, he just sucks shallowly with this smug grin stretching his lips and hums along to a song he can’t _quite_ name and it’s the _sound_ , the euphony of rain and gentle breeze and slick lips, that causes the groan to escape from his throat.

  
“Li,” he breathes, and he doesn’t even resist- just trails his lips up to share the bitter taste with Zayn’s lips and slicks his fingers and slides two slowly, smoothly, simply, into Zayn with no hesitation.

  
Zayn’s breath hitches and Liam kisses it away, gently rocking into his pliant body while his free hand traces over his tattoos (dancing along his collarbone, grasping at the microphone, stroking the feather, tracing the Arabic).

  
Liam carefully rotates his fingers, pressing tenderly against his prostate- not the rough, hot strokes he’s used to, but still absolutely overwhelming- and returns to his lips, doing all the work, nibbling on his tongue and lapping up his moans. “Do you remember?” he whispers, between kisses, “the light of your eyes and how it warmed the dark corners of my heart?”

  
He freezes against his lips and lets out a soft whine. “How do you remember that?” he whimpers

  
“Oh Zayn,” he sings, like that Beatles song. Zayn grinds a little onto his fingers in response and Liam pins his hips with his free hand. “I’m the responsible one. I remember everything you write.”

  
He distracts Zayn with a long, wet kiss, all tongue and lips, and wraps one leg loose around his waist and hoists the other over his shoulder. He pauses, there- grinning against his lips and sending a cool exhale of air over his ankle and catching his eye like a ‘ _hello’_ and an _‘I love you’_ and a _‘let’s stay here forever’_ all at once- before thrusting in one, steady motion. Zayn shivers all over and Liam crowds him into the mattress, gentle kisses scattering over his cheeks as he whimpers in pleasure.

  
They pause to adjust and the world just about _stops_ for them. The shivers subside and instead of pressing him closer with his heels or grinding down or whining, he just whimpers and starts tracing fingers over the muscles in his shoulders.

  
Liam mumbles a breathy _‘Zayn’_ and starts thrusting in slow and deep and it’s so intense and he needs more more more but it’s still overwhelming and his vulnerable moans are lost in the echoes of the rain above and the city below.

  
Liam’s cock is dragging slow against his prostate and one of his hands is entwined with Zayn’s and that _smile_ , that grin that absolutely lights up his face and crinkles his eyes, is pressed against the edge of his jaw and-

  
“Don’t hold back,” he mumbles, thrusting in a little deeper but still not gaining momentum, like this is their terminal velocity today, “I’ll take care of you.”

  
He moans and Liam laughs and shifts to support himself with a forearm, fingers tangling in Zayn’s mussed hair every few moments.

  
The muscles in Zayn’s legs are shaking from the effort and those quivers spread to infect his lungs and heart and nerves and he tries to hold back, tries to hold onto the feeling, because he’s so scared of letting go of the _slow_ and he’s so scared of his whole reality, but Liam calms him with a scatter of kisses along his cheekbones.

  
“Just us,” he whispers, “just us, Zayn, just us in this crazy world, I’ve got you-”

  
He relaxes his shoulders and comes messily between their chests, pressing sweet kisses along Liam’s shoulders until he grinds closer and follows suit.

  
They cuddle afterwards, their legs tangled together under the blankets as they watch the raindrops streak down the window. There’s something caught in the back of Zayn’s throat and it could be happiness or it could be tears, but what escapes is:

  
“Do you remember,” he whispers, “getting caught playing strip poker- on that big lonely stage- in the big lonely world- and feeling a little less isolated when we chased each other home?”

  
He whines needily into his temple. “You will be the death of me, Zayn Malik,” he groans, and then, like he’s embarrassed of his words- “you can sleep again, if you want. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  
He pouts in protest and Liam shoots him a fond smile and pulls out that battered T.S Eliot compilation, cuddling close and tugging the blankets back up to their shoulders. He tilts it so they can both read the words and every so often, when one of them comes across a particularly notable line, they’ll whisper it into the other’s skin.

  
(‘ _down the passage, which we did not take, towards the door, we never opened’_ )

  
(‘ _there is a time for building and a time for living and a time for generation and a time for the wind to break the loosened pane’)_

  
_(‘as we grow older the world becomes stranger’)_

  
And it’s there- with the Four Quartets and sleepiness hanging in the air (in the space between dreams and reality) that Zayn realises-

  
_Oh._

  
_Wow._

  
“It’s me and you, right?” he asks, muffled into his shoulder, his heart thumping in the slow moment. Liam’s hands clench around his arm.

  
“Me and you,” he repeats, “me and you and Eliot and Morrison, I promise.”

  
(and it’s the two of them for those six months, and the two of them during their tour the next year, and quietly- silently- Zayn hopes it will be the two of them in this calm for the rest of their lives)

 


End file.
